


The Sweetest Condition

by cuttooth, fatal_drum



Series: there's a price that I pay for my mission [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Bad Decisions, Barebacking, Dubious Consent, Light Stalking, M/M, Oral Sex, Possessive Behavior, Statement Fic, Trans Martin Blackwood, Vaginal Sex, alternate title: Jon needs a snickers, beholding kink, feral archivist Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 00:09:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20054821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: After Ny-Ålesund, Jon finds himself drained and hungry. Something tells him Martin has what he needs. He promised he wouldn't seek Martin out, but his resolve is quickly weakening.The least Jon can do is make sure Martin gets home safe, isn't it?





	The Sweetest Condition

Jon doesn’t recognize the impulse, at first. He feels...restless, agitated, but that’s not unusual these days, with all of them trapped in the small space of the Archives. They’re just back from Ny-Ålesund as well, he and Basira, and Jon’s still shaken from the trip. The Dark Sun still blazes behind his eyelids, its plasma flaring through his veins with a fearful vitality. He feels energized and drained all at once, jittery and weak. 

He needs to take a walk, he realizes suddenly. Jon gets up from his desk, abandoning the statement he’s been researching. He grabs his jacket, sparing a moment to think whether he should ask Daisy and Basira if they want anything from the shop, but he doesn’t stop to talk— he can’t wait, he needs to get out of here, the urgency like an electric current up his spine. 

Jon takes the stairs three at a time, and is at the front door of the Institute when his heart stutters in his chest. 

Martin is standing on the street. Jon stops dead, drinking in the sight of him. Martin is frowning down at the phone in his hand, typing furiously. It’s been weeks since Jon’s seen him, and he takes in every detail hungrily; Martin looks tired, drawn, his expression guarded. His usually vibrant curls are falling limp around his ears, but Jon still feels the familiar desire to thread his fingers through them. His uneasy haste comes suddenly into focus, fixing sharply on Martin. 

Is  _ this _ what the drive was, then? To find Martin, to talk to him, to hear the voice he’s craved for so long? Jon promised he wouldn’t, though, he can’t break that promise so easily, just because he’s scared and doesn’t know what to do. Even if he thinks Martin’s the only person he could talk to who might not hate him, who might understand—

Jon can’t. And Martin wouldn’t understand,  _ shouldn’t  _ understand, what Jon has done. Jon’s a monster, Martin shouldn’t have to—to  _ accept _ that, or  _ sympathize  _ with him. God knows Jon’s squandered Martin’s sympathy and kindness enough over the years. Why on earth would he deserve it now?

Martin’s walking away, and Jon should let him go, should go to Tesco and get some biscuits or something, anything to distract himself. Instead he finds himself following at a distance. He trails Martin like a lonely ghost, all the way to the Tube station and then onto the train. He stays in the next carriage, so Martin doesn't see him. Jon tries not to think about what exactly he’s doing, about why it’s so important Martin doesn’t know, as he alights at Victoria and follows Martin onto his next train. If he lets himself think about it, it will take him somewhere ugly.

He knows where Martin’s going, of course. Martin still has his little flat in Stockwell, the one where Jane Prentiss terrorized him for two weeks, because he’s never really thought about leaving it. Never thought that maybe he deserved something better. Jon hasn't been there before, and he doesn’t think about whether he’s planning to follow Martin all the way, or what he’s going to do then. He still feels...twitchy, sharp edged and nervous, but focused as well. Determined. At least he can make sure Martin gets home all right. Martin deserves protection, to be watched and held safe. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why he’s doing this? Jon’s almost sure. 

There’s another train, and then ten minutes’ walk to Martin’s flat. Martin seems preoccupied, keeps taking his phone out and frowning at it, typing the occasional quick response to some message he’s received. Lukas, Jon suspects. He doesn’t know precisely what Martin’s duties as Peter Lukas’ assistant entail, but it can’t be pleasant. Martin never even comes close to spotting him, as Jon tails him at a distance, just barely keeping him in sight. It’s far too easy for Jon to follow him.  _ Anything  _ could have been following Martin. Jon resolves to tell Martin about his oversight immediately. It won’t do for just any monster to be able to find him. They have enemies. _ _

They reach Martin’s building, and he ducks through the entrance door.  _ There, _ Jon thinks,  _ He’s home safe.  _ Somehow, though, his legs don’t stop, keep carrying him forward through the front door  _ (code 9624) _ and up the stairs to Martin’s flat  _ (3C). _ He shouldn't know the code or the flat number, but he does. His heart is racing in his chest as he lifts his hand to knock. He still doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he doesn’t know how to stop. Martin will give him what he needs, he knows somehow, even if Jon has no idea what that is. 

It takes a few moments for the door to open, and then Martin is standing there, so wonderfully  _ him _ that Jon could cry. He hasn’t seen Martin this close in—is it months? His senses are so heightened he can  _ smell _ Martin, citrus shampoo and a cologne Jon doesn’t recognize. Something hot and jealous flares inside him, as he immediately Knows the cologne came from Peter Lukas. He takes a step forward.

“Jon—” Martin looks surprised, and not a little apprehensive. “You—what are you doing here? You look awful.”

“Martin…” Jon says, and isn’t quite sure if he’s falling or pushing his way in. Either way, the door opens and Martin has him, Martin’s hands are holding him—holding him  _ up _ or at a distance, Jon doesn’t know and doesn’t care, because they’re strong and warm and  _ Martin _ . Jon wants to be held by him forever. He hears a quiet noise like a wounded animal, and realizes with a shock that it came from him. He’s inside now, the door is shutting behind him, and it’s just the two of them here alone in Martin’s small flat. 

Jon is suddenly horribly aware of why he’s here, of the impulse that dragged him out of the Archives and into Martin’s wake. Some combination of hunger, of  _ craving, _ after what the Dark Star took from him, threaded through with his constant, desperate desire for  _ Martin, Martin, Martin,  _ the lonely heartbeat of his existence. He pushes himself up and away from Martin’s supporting hands.

“Are you all right?” Martin asks, his eyes worried. Jon isn't all right, far from it, but it isn't him Martin should be concerned about.

Jon is starving. And Martin has a story, doesn’t he? Martin can feed his hunger. Martin can  _ help  _ him. 

“I need to know, Martin,” he says, and it’s not a compulsion yet. He wants to offer Martin the chance to  _ give _ this to him. “What has Lukas done to you?”

Martin is looking at him wide eyed, and then his expression hardens. His mouth pulls into a tight line.

“That’s none of your business,” he says tersely. “You need to leave, Jon. And don't come here again.”

He takes a step towards the door, using his size to hustle Jon backwards, and no, that won’t do at all, Jon hasn’t got what he needs and he hasn’t made sure Martin’s safe. That won’t do.

“Sit  _ down,  _ Martin,” Jon snaps. The compulsion feels strange on his tongue, acrid and venomous, like it did the time he stopped Breekon in its tracks. There’s...something _ wrong  _ about it, but Jon can’t consider that now, can’t do anything but watch Martin as he stumbles back, sits down heavily on the sofa. He looks afraid, and that satisfies something deep inside Jon. Martin hasn’t seen Jon like this, doesn’t know what Jon would do— _ could _ do—to keep him safe. He needs to  _ understand _ . 

“Jon, please—” he starts to say, his fingers curling into the fabric of the sofa. Jon steps into his space, nudges in between his knees and stands over him, finally taller than Martin. Leans down, his face close to Martin's, and says:

“Tell me what Peter Lukas did to you.”

The compulsion shudders up from the base of his spine, this time, the sweet and oily feeling that’s so familiar, so terribly  _ right. _ He sees a deep, fearful shiver run through Martin, his jaw trying to clench but his body betraying his will as his lips part. 

“It started after the Flesh attacked,” Martin begins. “You have to understand, I never wanted…but it doesn’t really matter what I wanted, does it? I took the deal when it came, because I was scared, and hurt, and scared of being hurt even more.”

Jon sees the attack as if he had been there: horrifying creatures made of meat and gristle; Basira falling in the chaos, surrounded by gaping maws; Melanie fighting them off with a knife in each hand, her eyes blazing with something not entirely human as she slices through glistening fat and raw muscle. He swallows, sickened. 

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Martin continues. “I could have tried harder, I suppose, but Peter seemed so sure of himself, and...somehow, I trusted him. I knew he would keep us safe if I did what he asked.”

Martin laughs, bitterly. “All he wanted out of the deal was  _ me _ , and that wasn’t much.”

Jon stares down at him, confused. What could Peter want from Martin that was worth making a bargain? There is plenty of prey to be had in London, without going to so much effort for one victim.

“I still think I got the better end of the deal. I’m not important, not like you. I don’t have any— _ abilities, _ or some supernatural destiny that’s going to drag us all towards the apocalypse. I was just a man watching everything fall apart around him.”

“Martin—”

_ “No, _ Jon,” Martin snaps. “You wanted this, and now you’re going to listen.”

Martin glares up at him defiantly, waiting for Jon to interrupt him again, before taking a deep breath. “I used to go to your bedside, you know,” he says quietly. “I’d talk to you for hours, and beg you to wake up and  _ help us.  _ But you never did.”

Martin swipes at his eyes with the back of one hand. “I know that’s not fair. You couldn’t help it. But the end result was the same—I was all alone, and I didn’t know what else to do. Peter wasn’t exactly surprised when I came to him, but he was pleased. He smiled that shark’s smile of his and asked if I was ready to meet his patron.”

Jon feels a hard knot of guilt settle in his chest. He’s _failed _Martin, in hundreds of little ways, before leaving him at Lukas’s mercy. For the first time he can remember, part of him wants the statement to stop, to leave off before things can get worse, but the need to _know_ is stronger; to see, to follow this to its conclusion, no matter the cost. 

“I said yes. What else could I say? So he took me by the hand, and led me into his god’s domain.” 

Martin looks down at his lap, and Jon’s hands twitch at his sides as he suppresses the urge to make Martin look up, to keep his eyes where they belong, on  _ Jon _ . Something cold and cruel in him considers this  _ mercy. _

“At first, it was just like the normal world, except...flatter. Colder. Like someone sucked all the life out of it. I turned to ask Peter about it, but he was already gone, and I was alone in this weird, grey world.”

Jon can see this as well: a world nearly identical to their own, but strangely faded. Martin’s footsteps are muffled as he explores the quiet halls of the Institute, an anxious expression on his face. 

“I wasn’t quite sure what to do then. He didn’t leave any instructions, so I just decided to...look around, I guess? I walked downstairs and into the lobby. There were people there, but they couldn’t see me. It was like they were ghosts, or maybe  _ I _ was the ghost.”

“At first, it was sort of freeing: I’ve always worried what people think of me, but no one was thinking of me at all. I could watch them as long as I wanted, without worrying about what I should say or do.” 

Martin smiles a bit sheepishly, and the sight makes Jon’s chest ache. It’s been so long since he’s seen Martin smile. 

“Eventually, though, the isolation started to weigh on me. I began to feel as though I’d never be seen or heard again, and worse, that it  _ didn’t matter.  _ The world would carry on just the same without me in it. I started to worry that Peter had tricked me, that he wasn’t really coming back at all. I was just starting to panic when I felt his hand close around my shoulder.” 

“He led me back to his office, and slowly the color began to seep back in, though it was still so cold. I realized I was shivering, and he wrapped his arms around me from behind, nuzzling my neck. ‘You did so well for me,’ he said, and—god, it felt good to hear him say that. Too good.” 

“His lips brushed against my neck, and I shook even harder. I felt like I would have done anything he wanted me to, and that— _ frightened _ me. His hands trailed down my sides, framed my hips. I knew I should say no, but I wanted him to touch me so badly, to make me feel anything but the cold, grey emptiness that still lingered inside me. My heart pounded in my chest as I waited for his next move. I could feel his breath against my ear, feel his lips curving against my neck. But all he did was smile and tell me he looked forward to the next time.” 

The image makes Jon sick. Peter has no place touching Martin with such perverse tenderness, sating his cold hunger with Martin’s fear. Jon’s hands curl into fists at his side, nails biting into his palms. 

“It became a regular thing after that. Every few weeks, he would take me with him into the Lonely and leave me there, a little longer each time. I started to look forward to the times he would take me out again, because then he would touch me again. He’d kiss my hair and hold me, for just a while—never as long as I wanted, though I would never have said so. It had been so long since anyone touched me.” 

Martin’s voice has grown quiet, and he pauses. “The Lonely became something familiar, and eventually, I stopped being afraid. That was my mistake.” 

Jon’s heart races.  _ This  _ is what he’s been waiting to hear, he knows it: the true horror at the center of it all, the moment when all Martin’s secrets will be  _ his.  _ Jon licks his lips, worrying at the chapped skin with his teeth. 

“The day it happened was just like all the rest. Peter took me into the Lonely, and I wandered wherever the fancy took me. I didn’t suspect that anything was different until I left the Institute. Usually, I could at least see the people around me, but this time, the street was empty, not a single person in sight. Just parked cars and silent buildings. You’re never really alone in London, not  _ really.  _ There’s always people outside, talking, laughing, just going about their lives. But there was none of that. It felt like the world had ended, and no one bothered to tell me.”

Martin takes in a shaky breath, exhaling slowly as if to calm his nerves. It doesn’t seem to work. 

“Eventually, even the streets were gone. It wasn’t hot, or cold. I couldn't feel anything on my skin. I couldn’t taste or smell anything. It felt like I was being smothered, only there was nothing  _ there— _ and there never would be again. No one was coming for me, because I didn’t exist anymore, I didn’t  _ matter.  _ You and Melanie and Basira and Daisy—even  _ Peter.  _ None of you would even come looking for me.” 

Martin is crying openly now, tears streaming down his face as he speaks, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are distant, haunted, as if part of him never quite left the Lonely. 

Jon fights the urge to touch Martin, to offer comfort. He doesn’t think Martin wants that, and Jon certainly doesn’t deserve to be the one to give it to him. 

“It felt like I was there for _days, _just hour after hour of endless grey nothingness. After a while I sort of...shut down. Stopped talking, stopped moving, stopped trying to get out. It was useless anyway. By then I couldn’t tell up from down, or left from right. It was all just grey.”

Martin puts his head in his hands, shuddering. For a moment, Jon can see through his eyes, see the endless expanse of emptiness all around him, and his fists clench even harder, painfully. All of this had been happening to Martin, and Jon hadn’t even  _ known. _ What’s the point of Knowing if he can’t spare Martin from this? What’s the point of  _ anything?  _

“I’d given up when I felt his hand on my wrist. ‘You’ve done so well,’ he said, and I clung to him like a lifeline. Slowly the grey faded away, and we were back in his office, and he was looking down at me with something like— _ pride. _ Like I was some kind of pet who’d done a trick.”

“ ‘I won’t leave you so long next time,’ he promised. He told me that I’d only been in deep for a few hours.  _ Hours.  _ What would it be like after a few days? Weeks? I started shaking then, imagining what he could do to me. I was so  _ cold.  _ He wrapped me in his arms and started running his hands up and down my spine. His hands were as chilled as I was, but I leaned into the touch anyway, because it felt like the only thing keeping me from sinking right back into the Lonely.”

Martin shuts his eyes, color rising in his cheeks. “His touch felt so good. It was the only thing I’d felt in what seemed like forever. So when he kissed me, I kissed back. His lips were as cold as the rest of him.”

“I didn’t resist when he deepened the kiss, teasing me with his tongue and teeth until I was moaning into his mouth. His hands slid down my back to my arse—he grabbed me too hard, but any touch felt good—and he lifted me onto the desk.” 

Jon should stop Martin now—he’s heard enough, it  _ has  _ to be enough—but Martin’s breathing hard through parted lips, and Jon can’t bring himself to stop listening. 

“He asked me if this was alright, and I just moaned and pulled him closer. I don’t think I’d ever wanted someone as much as I did in that moment. It was like...have you ever stepped into a cold building on a hot day? After a while you get used to it, but then you go back outside, and it’s such a shock to be warm again. That’s what his touch felt like.”

“He kept whispering in my ear, telling me how  _ sweet _ and  _ perfect  _ I was, how he could just devour me whole. I could feel his cock pressed against my thigh, heavy and firm, and he was undressing me, taking off my shirt and my binder, leaving me exposed. He rubbed his knuckles against the front of my jeans, and I clutched him close, begging him for more.”

Martin squirms in his seat, licking his lips. Jon’s heightened senses catch a sudden hint of salty-sweet musk past the tang of the hated cologne, and he realizes with a sharp jolt that it’s Martin, that he’s as aroused by this memory as he is afraid. Jon swallows hard. He is keenly aware of his position, poised between Martin’s legs. It would be so easy to close the space between their bodies.

“He pushed down my jeans and pants and squeezed my cock, teasing my hole with the backs of his fingers, and my hips rocked against his hand. He chuckled and kissed my neck. ‘Eager, aren’t you?’ he asked, and I just nodded helplessly. He grinned and went to his knees, that same shark’s grin, but right then it only made me want him more.”

Jon’s skin feels hot and uncomfortable, and his palms are sweating. He wipes them on his jeans, restless.

“He licked and sucked me like he was born to do it, like I was an instrument he’d spent decades learning to play. I couldn’t get enough of his mouth on me and his fingers inside me. I bit my own hand to stop from screaming when I came. Not that it would have mattered much. Nobody would have heard us unless Peter wanted them to.”

Jon sees it all, sees himself in Peter’s place, tasting Martin’s arousal on his tongue, feeling the pulse of him under his fingers. A strange thought seizes him: he could make Martin forget he’d ever wanted Peter, stake his own claim on Martin’s flesh. The idea makes Jon tremble. It’s appalling, and wrong...

“Even then, it wasn’t enough; I needed more. The cold and empty grey of the Lonely was too close. I still felt like I might slip at any moment, and even Peter wouldn’t be able to catch me.” Martin shivers, lost in memory, caught between fear and arousal. 

“He opened his trousers and pulled me into his lap. He was still fully dressed, had barely even loosened his tie, but he was breathing hard as I sank down onto his cock. It was thicker than I was used to, almost more than I could take, but it filled me up, and that was what I needed. He gripped my hips so tight his fingers left bruises, but I was so desperate, I didn’t care.”

Jon can see Martin in his mind’s eye, head tilted back, thighs straining, lost in pleasure as he rides Peter Lukas. Martin is beautiful like this, even with tears drying on his face. The image sears Jon with both acid hate and fierce desire. 

“When he was close, he reached down to stroke my cock, and I just  _ lost  _ it, moaning and grinding down against him until we both came. He kissed me afterwards, and told me how good I’d been for him. I even let myself believe for a moment that he really meant it.”

Jon lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, an unsteady exhalation. Martin doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Since then, he’s had me practicing. Seeing how long I can tolerate the Lonely. Never as long as the first time. Just long enough for the cold to set in. Then he brings me back, and...warms me up again.” 

Martin scrubs a hand across his face, sighing. 

“The worst part is, I’m starting to  _ like _ it. The stillness, and the quiet. After a while, the horror fades to a soft, dull ache, something I can live with. Everything else seems too loud, too bright, too painful in comparison.” 

Martin’s voice grows tight and distressed on the last words. “He’s waiting for the day I ask him for it. That’s when he’ll know he’s won.”

He goes silent then, staring down at his hands. Jon can’t stop looking at him. He’s nearly panting, feeling the statement curling warm through his chest with its completion, a heady, indescribable elation. But it isn’t enough, not this time. He is trembling with the knowledge of Martin’s cold and terror and loneliness, the gnawing despair. He is, god, he is  _ thrumming _ with the heat of being touched after such isolation, with the arousal he can still smell on Martin. The anger at knowing Peter Lukas  _ had _ Martin, kissed him and touched him and— 

It aches through Jon, hot and cold and desperate. His fingers clench. He needs…

“Martin,” he rasps, dropping to his knees. He presses his forehead to Martin’s thigh, squeezing his eyes shut. Martin startles, his hand reflexively going to the back of Jon’s head. 

“Jon, what are you—?”

“Please, Martin,” he says, his voice rough. “I don’t understand, but I just—I need you.”

He hears Martin’s sharp intake of breath, his fingers threading into Jon’s hair. Jon’s cheek rubs against the rough fabric of Martin’s jeans, and he hears himself make a pathetic, needy sound.

“Please,” he gasps, mouthing at Martin’s thigh, and feels a tremor run through Martin’s body, still drawn tight with fear and want, trembling in the aftermath of what Jon’s taken from him. 

“Yes,” Martin breathes and Jon sighs with relief. He grasps at Martin’s thighs, presses his face into Martin’s groin, the heat he feels there, the sweet scent of arousal. He unfastens the fly and Martin whimpers softly, lifts his hips so Jon can pull his jeans and boxers down, just enough that Jon’s mouth can reach him. Jon sees the damp patch in Martin’s boxers, catches a fresh rush of musky scent, and the anticipation makes him dizzy. Jon is shaking, is  _ shaken _ by how turned on he is. He knows there’s something wrong about this, his savage hunger twining with Martin’s desperation, but he can’t bring himself to care right now. 

Martin’s cock is pink and stiff, slick with his own arousal. Jon circles it with his tongue before drawing it into his mouth, relishing Martin’s quiet little moan. Martin’s hands are in his hair, stroking and tugging him closer. Jon groans as his nose presses into the thatch of hair and slides his hands up Martin’s thighs to his groin, rubbing his thumbs along the hot, silky folds. He runs his tongue down from Martin’s cock into his cleft, tasting the salty slick, licking deep inside. 

Martin moans, and Jon feels a spike of arousal go through him. He pushes closer, presses two fingers in alongside his tongue, feels them slide deep into the wet heat. Jon feels intoxicated, drunk on the tight clasp of Martin’s body, his taste and the soft, needy sounds he’s making, his fingers in Jon’s hair. 

“Jon, god,” Martin gasps. “Please, I need you closer, please—”

He pushes Jon away from him, and Jon whines at the loss of the heat, the closeness. Martin is leaning over him, face flushed and eyes hazy with desire. His hands cup Jon’s face, and Martin kisses him, sweet and open mouthed, licking his own taste from Jon’s lips. Jon groans into his mouth, trembling with want, crawls up into Martin’s arms and presses close against him. Martin is warm and yielding, and Jon runs his hands over the breadth of his shoulders and back, desperate to get even closer. 

“You’re so cold, all the time,” Jon breathes, even as he Knows it. Martin is freezing, not on his surface, his skin warm and freckled and welcoming, but deep at his core he feels endlessly, terribly cold. And that’s why he’s letting this happen. That, and—

“I need you inside me,” Martin pleads against his mouth, and Jon whimpers. He wants to, wants it so badly, and something in him is scared at the surge of lust that sweeps over him, imagining Martin opened up beneath him, eager and needing. He kisses Martin again, deeply, presses him back to lie on the sofa, while Martin wriggles his jeans further down his legs. Jon wants to touch all of him, every bit of them skin to skin, but the urgency is too great, and he can barely unbuckle his own belt with shaking hands. 

Martin bats his hands away and takes over, unzipping him and tugging his briefs down far enough for his cock to spring free. Jon’s cock is painfully, embarrassingly hard, already leaking pre-ejaculate when it hasn’t even been touched. Martin wraps a hand around it and Jon moans mortifyingly loud, his hips bucking forward. He pets his own hands over Martin’s thighs, the soft curve of his belly, rucking Martin’s shirt up to his armpits and stroking down the center of his chest, over the sweat-damp fabric of his binder. Martin arches into his touch and strokes Jon’s cock, dragging soft, panting moans out of his throat. 

“Jon,” Martin gasps, “Jon, please, I need you.”

“Please…” Jon whines, as Martin’s hands on his hips tug him forward, so his cock slides against the hot, wet cleft of Martin’s body, nestles between his slick folds. He rocks his hips forward and feels himself sink inside, gripped in his welcoming heat. Martin gives a deep groan, his hips tilting up, his cock rubbing against Jon’s pelvis. Nothing has ever felt so good, and Jon gives himself up, falls into Martin’s embrace, Martin’s warm weight in his arms and his face pressed into Martin’s throat as their hips rock together. Surges of pleasure build through him, and he hears himself moaning and whimpering mindlessly, clinging to Martin like he’s the only real thing in a world of grey and cold and nothing. He shoves his hand down between them, stroking Martin’s cock and teasing his slick, tender slit with his fingers. 

Martin holds him close, gasping his name, louder and more desperate until he tenses and shakes, his body clutching around Jon’s cock in waves as he climaxes. Jon’s never been so aroused, and Martin’s orgasm drives him on, his hips jerking in a staccato rhythm that builds closer and closer to its conclusion. Martin pets his hands over Jon’s back, murmuring his name, urging him closer, deeper,  _ more, _ as Jon feels orgasm hit him, an overwhelming release. He whimpers against Martin’s throat as he comes, buried deep inside him, with Martin’s arms tight around him, and Martin's heart beating against his. He nearly weeps with relief. For a moment, everything feels right.

For a moment. 

“Jon…” Martin whispers.

Jon looks up at Martin’s flushed and tear-stained face, slowly coming back to awareness, and feels an overwhelming surge of horror at what he’s done. He's manipulated Martin since he walked through the door—cracked him open and fed on his fear, his shame, his arousal—and then subjected him to Jon’s own base desires, crawling to him on his knees like an animal. Anyone else would have comforted Martin. Jon’s first instinct was to beg to suck him off, before he even kissed him. 

Martin frowns at him, concerned and confused. “Jon...what just happened?”

Jon pulls back abruptly, and Martin makes a low sound of pain at their separation. 

“I hurt you,” Jon murmurs, feeling a wave of nausea overcome him. 

“I’m just a bit sore,” Martin says with a small wince. 

Jon looks down to see the disarray of their clothes. There’s semen,  _ his  _ semen, smeared between Martin’s thighs, dripping onto the sofa. The sight sends a jolt of possessiveness through his chest, a savage satisfaction he’d never imagined in himself. The idea of marking Martin as his own, of being marked in return, feels deeply, instinctively  _ right _ . His gratification is immediately overshadowed by guilt and horror. In his selfishness, he hadn’t even thought to use a prophylactic. 

“Oh, god. Martin, I—I don’t know what—”

Jon has... _ taken _ statements this way before, to his shame and guilt, but he’s never fed off someone he knew, someone he  _ cared _ about. And Jon relished every moment of it: the chase, the compulsion, the consummation. He  _ used  _ Martin, took his fill of him, and now the knowledge of him is curled in Jon’s belly, warmer and more filling than any meal. Jon wants to vomit. 

Martin’s voice is steady as he says, “Jon, calm down.” 

“I’m so sorry,” he says miserably. “I didn’t mean—”

“What are you—?”

Jon stuffs himself back into his jeans, hands shaking. Martin reaches out to grasp his arm, and Jon jerks back. 

“Don’t touch me!” he snaps. Martin flinches, and Jon hates himself all over again. 

“I didn’t mean that,” Jon says, covering his face with his hands. 

“Jon, sit  _ down,”  _ Martin orders, with a sharpness Jon hasn’t heard before. 

Jon obeys without thinking, and Martin sits up, tugging his clothing back into order. His hair is sticking out at all angles, and Jon wants to smooth it from his face, to wipe the sweat from his brow, but he’s already done enough damage. 

“I’m going to ask you again,” Martin says. “What the hell just happened?”

“I—” Jon stops, his throat suddenly dry. His thoughts are scattered, bouncing off each other uselessly, with no sign of the preternatural certainty that drove him moments before. 

Martin sighs. “Fine. Let’s just start with why you came here.”

“I missed you,” Jon says. 

Martin laughs mirthlessly. “You’ve got an odd way of showing it. Try again.” 

Jon closes his eyes, ashamed. “I was...hungry.”

“Hungry?”

Jon wraps his arms around himself, wishing he could disappear—but this is what his patron loves, isn’t it? Fearful scrutiny, a judging gaze: the knowledge he is unworthy to be seen. Even its avatar isn’t exempt. 

“For...a statement. Something called me out of the Institute, and then I saw you, and I knew you had what I needed. So I followed you.”

“You _ followed  _ me?” Martin asks incredulously. 

“Yes,” Jon admits quietly. He feels hollowed out, emptied of everything but guilt and sickness. His skin feels too tight, every nerve scraped raw. A better man would know how to fix this, but Jon isn’t even a good one. He doesn’t know if he’s a man at all, or just a vessel for the Eye’s hunger. 

“Right,” Martin says finally. “So you just decided on a bit of light stalking, followed by a meal. Glad I could be of use to you.” 

The words sting, and Jon can’t deny them. He wants to slide onto his knees again, to beg for Martin’s forgiveness, but he knows he doesn’t deserve it.

Martin shakes his head. “I knew about the woman from the coffee shop, but—god, I thought it was just the once. I didn’t know you were making a  _ habit _ of it.”

Jon’s blood turns to ice in his veins. “You knew?” Martin was never meant to know how far Jon had slipped, what depths he would sink to in order to feed his hunger—but Jon has just  _ shown _ him, hasn’t he? No need to wait for Martin to discover the monster Jon has become; he’s provided a more than adequate demonstration.

“She came to the Institute to complain,” Martin says pointedly. “Don’t you have enough statements in the Archives?”

“They’re not enough anymore,” Jon says quietly.

“Jon, you can’t just do that to people.”

“I don’t have a  _ choice!”  _

Martin gives him a hard look. “There’s always a choice. It’s just not always one we like.” 

Jon looks away, ashamed. 

“How many have you—?” Martin stops and shakes his head. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. But surely you didn’t—you know—with the rest of them.” His face flushes pink. 

“No!” Jon cries, horrified at the idea. “Just...you.” 

Martin’s composure slips for a moment. He almost looks like he’s going to cry again, but he just sighs. 

“Why, Jon? Why did  _ any _ of this seem like a good idea to you?”

“I...don’t know.” Jon says in a small voice. “I wasn’t...thinking clearly.” 

“That much is obvious.”

“I’m sorry.” Useless words, but he can’t stop saying them. 

Martin puts his head in his hands, exhaling shakily. When he looks up again, his eyes are red-rimmed but dry. 

“I think you should go,” he says flatly. “And forget this ever happened.” 

“...right,” Jon says. He stands, awkwardly, trying to think of the right words to say, but Martin just shakes his head. 

_ “Now, _ Jon.” 

Jon leaves. The restlessness and anxiety that drove him here are gone, replaced by worse things. His body hums with stolen energy, because he is weak and Martin trusted him. The moment he gets outside, he fumbles for his lighter and a cigarette, nearly drops them both. The smoke isn’t enough to cover the scent of Martin that still surrounds him. 

_ Never again,  _ he tells himself. He can’t be trusted around Martin. He’s too important to risk losing to Jon’s hunger. 

His resolve lasts almost three weeks. 


End file.
